


Keeping You In Sight (Castiel's POV)

by alylynn122



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe - Slavery, BAMF Castiel, Blind Castiel, Friendship/Love, Human Castiel, Hurt Dean, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, In-over-his-head Cas, POV Castiel, Past Child Abuse, Protective Castiel, Rape Recovery, Remix, Slave Dean, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-17
Updated: 2016-11-20
Packaged: 2018-08-23 02:14:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8309827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alylynn122/pseuds/alylynn122
Summary: All Castiel wanted was to be left alone in his mountain home with himself and his dog to live his life in piece. What he got instead was an overbearing brother that didn't know how to mind his own business, and an opportunity to save a man from a life of abuse and horror. Honestly, what choice did he have? But then, maybe his brother had been on to something after all.This work is a remix of the original, authored by the amazing gingerswag. If you haven't read that one, I would suggest doing so first.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Keeping You in Sight](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4838003) by [gingerswag](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gingerswag/pseuds/gingerswag). 



Castiel wakes up with both an aching and joyful heart, after finally managing to get his eyes to close for more than an hour. Less than two weeks ago, he had buried his best friend. Today, he is going to try and find another. It hurts beyond measure to think of replacing Anna, but it would hurt even more so to continue living with this hole in his life. Sighing, Cas tries to remind himself that he isn't replacing Anna, he is just moving on with his life, and his life-he-needs a dog.

He rises gingerly, feeling the draft of the fresh mountain air wafting in through his cracked window. The afternoon air smells crisp, and he can hear the promise of birdsong as he listens to the flutter of wings in the branches outside his window. Were he not so anxious to get ready, he would sit and listen to them awhile before getting dressed. But, today isn't a day he can take his time. Gabriel is probably already on his way. And if Cas isn't dressed and appearing functional by the time he arrives, he will have to listen to another speech about how his brother was "worried" for him.

Less than an hour later, Castiel is standing in the bathroom, attempting to count the button holes on his shirt in an effort to get it to hang correctly on his frame. He has only just managed to secure the last button when he hears knocking on the door, loud and impatient, just like the knocker himself.

Gabriel is already knocking again when Cas finds his way down the steps and to the front door, wondering where he had left his shoes.

"He bro, long time no see," Gabriel greets, his tone too friendly and too loud, at least to Castiel's ears. But, it has also been a long time since he had spoken to his brother in person.

"Hello, Gabriel," Cas replies, trying to quirk his mouth up into an easy smile, "Come in."

Gabriel walks in as if he owns the place, booted feet harsh and clacking on the tile floors of the entryway. Cas lets the door fall shut with a dulled thump, and directs his nose towards the sound of Gabe's footsteps. He can almost feel eyes on him, and carefully adjusts his shirt so it sits evenly on his shoulders.

"I didn't know when you would be here," he offers as way of explanation, hoping his brother doesn't see any evidence of his sleepless night on his face.

"Sorry, Cas," Grabriel replies nonchalantly, "I forgot to call."

"That's alright," Cas shrugs, grateful no attention has been called to his physical or emotional state yet, "We should get going, though. It’s already four o’clock and shelter closes at nine.”

“Actually,” Gabriel starts, and Cas can already feel his heart sinking, “I wanted to talk to you about that.”

And it's then that he hears the swish of rough fabric rubbing against itself, the gentle plodding of two bare feet on the floor, and he locates the sound as coming from behind Gabriel's voice.

"There's someone with you."

It's not a question, more like an accusation. Honestly, what is this? Did Gabriel bring another one of his brothers up, to try and talk him into coming "home" again?

“Well, yes," his brother says honestly, tone sheepish but determined, "I’d like you to meet Dean. Dean, say 'hello'."

Dean? Castiel doesn't know any Deans, and is just about to demand answers when he hears a voice so quiet, it is barely there. It takes him a few minutes for the words to actually register.

"Hello, sir."

"Sir?" Either this stranger is trying to be respectful, or....

"Gabriel, what is this?" Cas demands, hand unconsciously gesturing towards the second voice. Surely Gabe would never dare bring a slave into his house, not when he knows how Castiel feels on such practices.

He can hear Gabriel sigh, whether out of exasperation or exhaustion, he doesn't care.

"Look, Cas, I know you wanted another dog," he starts.

"I did."

"But come on, buddy," the older man demands, "When's the last time you even talked to someone besides me?"

Besides me. As if he didn't intrude on Cas' life enough with biweekly phone calls and unannounced visits.

"I don't see how that is any of your concern."

There is no mistaking the coldness in his voice, no veil over the accusation. Cas wants no part of this, any of it.

"'It's not my concern'," Gabe mimics, throwing Castiel's mind right back to listening to Gabe arguing with Michael over who got the last slice of pizza. Inwardly, he sighs. He'd never seen eye to eye with his family, but surely Gabriel of all people didn't expect him to just accept a slave.

"Fuck, Cas," Gabriel adds, voice less mocking and more concerned. Honestly, Cas isn't sure which tone he prefers.

"I know I'm overstepping here, but I'm worried about you, okay? I'm worried about you all alone in these frickin' mountains, shut inside all day with your books and your dog. I just think Dean will be good for you, okay?"

Biting back a retort, Cas tries to wait and let his brother finish, in hopes the conversation wouldn't drag on.

"He could help you get around, drive you places, do some stuff around the house that a dog couldn't do-"

"I can do the things around the house that a dog can't do," Cas snaps. And he was right, damn it, he knew where this was going. He isn't _helpless_ , he doesn't need to be taken care of. He wants the world to leave him alone, is that too much to ask?

Apparently, it is.

"I know you can," Gabriel backpedals, and Cas can hear the defensiveness in his voice, "I just think it would be easier sometimes to have a pair of working eyes to help you."

And damn it, why did it always come back to this?

"I don’t need any more help than I’ve had for the past 24 years, Gabe!”

“Cas-”

“No!” Cas is done. He is done with this conversation, and he is done with his brother.

“I’ve had Anna since I was twelve years old, and I’ve never needed more help than she provided. That hasn’t changed now that she’s dead. I need a seeing eye _dog_ , not a person. Not to help me, not because you are overly invested in my personal life, not for any reason.”

He hears Gabe scoff, and make some gesture that shifts the fabric on his sleeves.

"Fine! Fine. What am I supposed to do with him, then?"

And Cas is too angry to care. Too angry to even think about the third person in the room, the one with working ears and listening in to every word of the conversation. He can't find it in him to give a shit about the mess thrown at his feet.

"I don't know, you bought him."

"For you," Gabe retorts, voice dangerously near shouting.

"Well, I don’t want him. Keep him for yourself," Cas throws back, already taking a step away from his brother and the slave. He will not keep a slave, not in his house. Not one that has been bought and paid for and gifted to him like a freaking potted plant.

“I don’t want him.”

“Then bring him back!”

Suddenly, the room is quiet. And only then can Cas hear the echo of his command, the held breath of the man standing beside Gabe, the cruelty of their words. And without warning, the atmosphere in the room changes. His brother sucks in a breath, and the next words are low, as if he is scared to say them.

"I don't think they'll take him back."

"What?"

"He's pretty damn hurt, Cas," Gabe replies, and Cas hears the undercurrent of his words. _You aren't the only person I'm trying to help here._

"Dean?" Cas says, tasting the name in his mouth for the first time. He's never met a Dean, and he has certainly never spoken directly to a slave. But he turns his head towards the stranger, silently trying to apologize for acting like he didn't exist earlier. If Dean is angry, none of it shows in his tone. Instead, he sounds anxious.

"Yes, sir?"

"Is that true? Are you hurt?"

And Cas is hoping Gabriel was lying to try and garner sympathy, to try and make Castiel keep the slave out of guilt.

"Yes, sir," the slave- Dean- replies. His breathing is ragged now, and Cas can't stop himself from coming forward and gliding his fingers over the slave's face. Dean flinches, but otherwise remains still. Beneath his fingertips, Cas can feel the rough patches on his skin. The raised bruises, thin scars, swollen divets where rings gouged his cheeks, a puffy lower lip, and something.... wet around his eyes.

Tears. Dean has been crying. And Cas doesn't want to know who taught him to cry so silently, so utterly soundless that neither of them caught it. But here in those tears, he finally understands what Gabriel has been trying to tell him. His mouth falls open, trying to form an apology, trying to take back his cruel words and reassure Dean that he doesn't view him as just an object, and that's the very reason he doesn't want him. But all of these fine ideals fall short when he considers his childish argument from just moments earlier.

"Are you hurt anywhere else?" he asks instead.

"Yes'ir," Dean mumbles in reply, voice low. If Cas really wanted to put a word to it, the man almost sounded ashamed. Ashamed of being _hurt_.

"Where else," Cas demands, softening his command with what he hopes was a concerned expression.

"Um..."

Cas was about to tell him it was alright, when he started crossing off a bulleted list of injuries, as if giving a status report.

"Well.... My.. My back's pretty cut up, from thr whip. And I can't bend two of my fingers.. And I think my rib might be broken. A-and..."

Here, the slave trails off, but Cas has barely noticed anything after the word "whip".  _Jesus...._

“-And my ass is still pretty torn up. I mean I’m pretty sure I’m still bleeding....sir.”

This is exactly the reason Castiel doesn't support the slave trade, but Dean is injured-severely- and Gabriel has already paid for him. He turns his head back to his brother, hoping that they might come to some sort of solution. He doesn't want a slave, certainly can't take care of one that has been this abused.

"Please."

The word is airless and breathy at the same time, quiet and meek with an undercurrent of desperation.

Cas hears the slave's pants shuffle, and then his voice is coming from lower, and now Cas can practically _feel_  him kneeling at his feet.

"Please, I can be good. I'll be good....I'll do what you want. Please keep me, sir," Dean pleads, and Cas has been desperate. He has been hopeless. He has been lost, and frightened, and cast out, and ignored. But he has never been on his knees begging to a stranger for mercy. He has never had his life placed in someone else's hands.

He knows what will happen if Gabe takes the slave back. If he is lucky, he'll be sold on. If he isn't, he'll be put down. There were more no-kill shelters in the country than there were no-kill auction houses.

Cas can still feel the moisture of tears on his fingertips.

As gently as he can, so as not to frighten the man, he brushes those fingers through the slave's hair. Perhaps he can replace his harsh words with a soft touch, and those cruel marks with kindness.

"Stand up, Dean," he orders, making sure to keep the pity out of his voice. He knows how it feels to be pitied, no one wants that.

As Dean rises, Cas backs away, chewing on the inside of his lip. There were a few options here.

Either Castiel could make Gabriel take Dean with him, and his brother would either keep the slave or sell him on. If he kept him, he would go home and live with his brothers. His brothers who openly supported the slave trade and the boost it gave the economy. Or Gabriel would sell him, and he would go to another home where his wounds would never heal and he would be lucky to make it to the average lifespan of a slave, which was a meager 37 years.

Or, he could stay with Cas.

"If you're hurt that badly, I may need to call a doctor," he finds himself saying.

"So.....I guess that means you're keeping him?" Gabe voices hopefully.

Castiel thinks of tears on his fingertips, and the quiver of Dean's voice when he begged, and the thoughtless way he and his brother both threw around,  _I don't want him_. He thinks of pain so unbearable, he would throw himself at the mercy of the closest stranger to address him. He thinks of a strong jaw, cupped in his hand, and how nice it was to feel the soft puffs of breath that escaped Dean's lips.

And he sighs.

"Yes, Gabe," he replies, "I'm keeping him."


	2. Chapter Two: "You're Okay"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, this one was hard to write. So many computer troubles this month, it's been ridiculous. Hopefully, now it is all fixed. Anyways, here is your extremely long Chapter 2. I tried to develop Cas' perspective a little more, and touch on some things Dean didn't overhear in the original story. I hope you like it. :) 
> 
> As always, comments are amazing and I would love to hear any ideas you might have for the story.

 

"Right then," Cas mutters as he runs a hand through his hair, frowning at the rustle of fabric that could only be Dean flinching, "Wait here."  
  
He makes his way towards the stairs without waiting for a response, leaving Gabe to deal with Dean. He couldn't stand being called "sir" again right now. Wracking his already overloaded brain, he tries to think of everything he knows about slaves. He knows how the markets work, how rescue groups can exist legally, how slaves are not considered sentient beings. He knows about Slave Welfare activists, and their fight to get slaves recognized as at least equivalent to pets. He knows about several upcoming Supreme Court battles where equalists are suing previous owners on their slave's behalf, and he also knows they will be thrown out or result inthe previous owner paying reparation for the sale of damaged goods.  
  
But he doesn't know anything about slaves themselves, and certainly nothing about this slave. Gabriel hadn't even left him with so much as an ownership record, not that Cas minded. He may be Dean's legal owner (as per laws regarding gifts), but at least Gabriel's name was the one on the forms.  
  
Sighing, he fishes his phone out of his pocket as he rounds the corner into his bedroom, holding down the center button until he feels the case vibrate.  
  
"Search for 'bringing home a new slave,'" he tells the phone. Within seconds, the voice starts reading off from some random list.  
  
"The first thing to know when bringing home a new slave is that your first impression is the most important. It is always best to be as strict as possible, and swiftly punish any transgressions. The slave will use the first few days to test the limits of its new owner, and needs to know that any disobedience will be met with immediate and painful punishment. This gaurantees you an obedient, well-trained slave, and also helps the slave feel comfortable within its role. Several common punishments include whipping, beating, restriction of food and-"  
  
Castiel clicks the button off with a muttered sound of distaste, trying to hold back a shudder. No wonder Dean is terrified, if this is what he was expecting when he came here. And whether Cas likes it or not, he can't deny his own part in that fear. But he can also tell Dean is smart, just by the way he had reacted to the conversation that occured between him and Gabriel. He was aware, and present, which was a good thing as far as Cas is concerned.  
  
So, if he were a slave in a new home, fresh from the auction house, what would he need? What would he want?  
  
Well, clean clothes, for sure. And warmth, the lack of fabric on the slave's upper shoulders had not gone unnoticed.  
  
Alright, Cas can do that. Finding new resolve, he walks over to his dresser, taking care not to bump into the corner of his bed post. Brushing his finger over the knobs on the drawers, he counts two down and one to the right, then pulls out the drawer and selects the top article of clothing. The cotton is soft beneath his fingertips, and he is eternally grateful that he had done laundry only a few days ago. As an afterthought, he grabs a throw blanket off of his bed on his way back down the steps, rather than a shirt. Dean had said his back was cut up. They'd need to get him to a doctor before Cas knew if it was safe to put a shirt on or not.  
  
He comes down the steps to hear the same silence as when he had left. Either Gabe can't get the slave to talk, or he hasn't tried.  
  
"Dean?" Cas calls out.  
  
"Yes, sir?" comes the immediate response, completely devoid of any emotion or inclination towards what the speaker was feeling. This was going to be difficult. Cas depended on the intonations of people's words, and if he wasn't scared, Dean didn't seem to have any.  
  
"Here," he says, holding out the pants and blanket. He hears footsteps shuffle closer to him, and wonders idly where Gabe even is. He certainly isn't being helpful, especially considering it's his fault Cas is stuck in this mess to begin with. But he really can't find it in him to regret his decision, not when he hears Dean's nearly inaudible hiss of pain only a moment before his hand takes the fabric from Cas' grip.  
  
"Sir?"  
  
"Those pants are for you to put on, since I'm sure your old ones are... well, dirty. And the blanket is because I didn't know if we should chance a shirt right now...." Cas trails off, letting his words fall with a shrug of his shoulders.  
  
"Thank you, sir," Dean replies, and now his voice has more emotion than Castiel knows what to do with.  
  
"You're welcome, why don't you change while Gabe and I talk in the kitchen."  
  
He can almost hear Gabriel perk up at the sound of his name, right before he starts walking towards the kitchen.  
  
"What's up?" his brother asks, far too loud now in the even smaller room.  
  
"I need you to tell me what the hell you were thinking. Why were you even at a slave auction?" Cas can't keep the accusation out of his tone. He knows Gabe isn't as adamant about abolishing the slave trade as he is, but the man has certainly never seemed to support it either.  
  
"It's not like that, Cassie. I was driving here, and just happened to pass through a place where an auction was being advertised. I figured, 'Hey, know what's better than a dog? Something that can actually talk!', and here we are," Gabriel replies, shifting the weight on his legs in a way that makes the floorboards creak. Cas is leaning on the counter, trying not to groan at his brother's use of his childhood nickname. Some things are better off forgotten, as far as he is concerned.  
  
"So, you what? Just went inside and bought a slave like it was no big deal?"  
  
Gabriel makes some sort of huffing sound, as if Cas is the one being thick here.  
  
"A _slave_ , Gabriel, in my house! What were you thinking?"  
  
" _Nothing!_ Ok? I wasn't thinking anything. I got the idea of getting a slave for you, and figured I would see what the prices were like, but then.."  
  
"Then, what?" Cas prompts, crossing his arms and clenching the fabric of his shirt in his fisted hand. Gabe sighs again, louder, more defeated, and somehow Castiel regrets asking.  
  
"Then I saw what he looked like. I mean, don't get me wrong, they all looked deplorable. It's worse than I thought it would be. But the place stunk, and he was in this dark corner of it, and people had their hands all over him and he didn't even _try_  to get away when someone kicked him. No one wrote down his number, though. No one even seemed interested in buying him, just in smacking him around. You know what happens to slaves who aren't sold. What was I supposed to do?"  
  
"And what exactly to you expect me to do?" Cas demands, throwing his arms to the side and making a vague gesture in the direction of the living room. Gabriel sounds honest, and truthfully, he isn't sure what he would have done in his brother's shoes. But there was a reason they didn't go to slave auctions, and that was it.  
  
"Use him. You may not like it, but he's a slave, Cas. He's a slave and it's his job to help his master and now that's you. It's better than the alternative for you both."  
  
"Alternative? My alternative was a dog, how is that worse than a slave?"  
  
"Damn it, _Cas._ Can't you just trust me on this?" Gabe snaps, smacking the counter with an open hand, making Castiel jump and lose his footing, falling onto the corner of the stove. He hisses in a breath as he backs up and probes the tender spot on his lower back with his right hand.

"See? This is exactly what I mean," Gabriel mumbles as he steps closer to Cas and puts himself between his little brother and the sharp corner of the stove.  
  
"What? I slipped, you can't tell me you've never done that," Castiel shoots back, pain forgotten now that his independence is once again in question. He's been on his own for far longer than he has been living on this mountain. He wishes people would just _see_ that.  
  
"And if you had hit your head? If you couldn't walk?"  
  
"I'd pull out my phone and call 911, just like you would!" he replies hotly, not caring if his voice is too loud now.  
  
"Cassie," Gabe groans, and something in his tone makes all of the anger flood out of Cas.  
  
"What aren't you telling me?"  
  
"Luci is back. He's been berating Michael for letting you go off on your own, saying he's been irresponsible. He wants to try and bring you back home," Gabriel says flatly, his hand falling onto Cas' shoulder. Cas shrugs him off.  
  
"I am home."  
  
"C'mon Cas, don't be like that. I'm just trying to help here. I know how you feel about it, but even Luci just wants what's best for you," Gabe pleads.  
  
"And what about Hannah? She went off, too. Why isn't he trying to drag her back? As a matter of fact, why does he think I don't know what's best for me? Would any of you be concerning yourselves so much with my wellbeing if I wasn't _blind_? Because that's the issue here, isn't it? Poor little blind Cassie is all alone away from his family up in these mountains and now he doesn't even have his dog. So Lucifer wants to bring me home, and you want to get me slave. I'm sick and tired of people making decisions for me, Gabriel. I'm happy, isn't that enough for you?"  
  
"But are you happy, Cas? Because you have no one up here. You're cut off from your family, from town, from civilization. You live like a hermit. Luci is just worried about you. _I'm_ worried about you."  
  
"I need you to leave," Castiel replies, eyes narrowed and voice thickly controlled so as not to leave him screaming at his brother.  
  
"Alright, I'll call in a couple of days. Just please, Cas, give this a chance. Dean will be good for you, you'll see," Gabriel replies easily, but the fakeness of his tone is evident. He claps Castiel on the shoulder one last time, and then his feet are padding towards the kitchen entrance. He hears him mutter something to Dean, and then the front door closes and a car starts.  
  
Cas stays in the kitchen composing himself until the crunch of tires on gravel has long since passed, and the anger swirling in his mind calms down enough for him to think. It's only then that he remembers the man in his living room, probably just as confused as he is, if not more.  
  
"Dean?" Cas calls as he comes back into the living room. He hears the slave's mumbled reply coming from the couch, and wanders over to stand behind him. Gently, he lowers a hand onto the slave's back, and tucks the blanket tighter around his shoulders.  
  
"Stay there, I'm going to make some phone calls and try to find you a doctor," he tells him, giving a soft smile and patting his shoulder once before letting go.  
  
"Sir, I really don't need a doctor, even if you did find one that would see slaves. It's not... common," Dean protests, although the very air around him quivers with the short, shallow breaths he forces himself to take.  
  
"Nonsense, Dean. You're a person, people go to doctors when they are injured," Castiel replies lightly, earning nothing but silence from the slave. Sighing, he wanders off into the living room and pulls out his phone book, fingers gliding over the raised dots before he finds the section for medical clinics. His first thought is urgent care, at the nearest hospital, but he does need to find out if they treat slaves first.  
  
Typing in the number to his older, landline phone, he punches through the automated voice messages until he finally gets to a real person.  
  
"San Jose Urgent Care Center, how can I help you today?" A male voice answers.  
  
"Hello, I'm calling to ask if you treat slaves at your hospital. Mine is pretty badly hurt," Cas replies, and the very words taste bad in his mouth. _Mine_. As if a human life is something he could lay claim to.  
  
"I'm sorry, sir, but we don't treat slaves here, only people," the speaker says, voice nothing but cordial.  
  
"Alright, thank you."  
  
Cas hits the button on the reciever to end the call, and punches in the next number in the phone book. Some San Jose Valley Family Clinic.  
  
HE gets the same reaction from their clinic, and the next, and the next.  
  
"Sorry sir, we really don't do that sort of thing here," some woman is saying into the line, the eighteenth person to say that same thing.  
  
"Can you possibly recommend someone who does, than? I've called every number in the phone book," Cas replies, unable to keep the exasperation out of his tone.  
  
"No, sir. I'm sorry, I don't know any clinic around here that would reduce themselves to that level. You might try a vet, however. They sometimes make housecalls in their spare time to come treat slaves," the receptionist suggests.  
  
"He's not an animal. He is a person, he needs a doctor certified in treating _people_ ," Cas snaps, and abruptly the other line goes dead.  
  
"Damn it," he mutters, slamming the phone down onto the reciever and putting his head back in his hands. His ear hurts, his head hurts, and he is just about done with this whole goddamn day. Absently, he found himself biting his bottom lip, trying to curb his anger at this whole situation. He was both angry and grateful to Gabriel. Angry because he had dumped this mess on him, and grateful because Gabriel's idiot behavior had actually managed to help someone this time. That someone wasn't Cas, but at least it was someone.  
  
Somehow, Cas also just found himself wishing he could have just gotten the dog. Not only was he alone now, but now he was alone with someone to take care of. A man with an extensive history of abuse who needed immediate medical attention in a place where no one would treat him.  
  
"Dean, are you still on the couch?"  
  
He hears the fabric rustle.  
  
"Yes, Master."  
  
_Master._ That definitely wasn't happening.  
  
"Oh," he replies, only mildly successful in keeping his annoyance out of his tone, "There's no need for that. Please, call me Cas."  
  
His feet carry him to the couch, and he sits on the opposite end of Dean's voice, directing his face towards the other man.  
  
"Yes, Master. I mean... Yes... C- Ca..."  
  
Cas tilts his head, and can't help but wonder when the last time Dean called anyone by their name was.  
  
"Yes, Mr. Cas," the slave finally decides.  
  
Cas sighs, more audibly than he had meant to. This was going to take a lot of work. He wasn't sure he was equipped to handle such a project.  
  
"Or that's okay, too. Whatever makes you feel comfortable."

And then there is more silence. No questions, no requests. For all Cas knows, Dean has fallen asleep. So much for the talk.  
  
"Um, anyways. It seems you were right about the doctors. I don't think I'll be able to find one who is willing to come," he admits, trying to break the silence.  
  
"It's fine sir.. I mean, Mr. Cas. I don't need a doctor. I'm fine." The reply is swift, almost scripted but also with an undertone of courage, as if this is the most the man has said in years.  
  
_Certainly the most he has said all day,_ Cas thinks.  


"You just told me you were hurt," he says instead.  
  
"I am, sir," Dean argues, "But i'm fine. Really. I've healed on my own from much worse."

Cas is trying to think of a way to explain how impossibly stupid that was of his former masters, but his thoughts are interupted before he can articulate anything.  
  
"Mr Cas," Dean prompts, and Castiel directs his face back towards the voice, wondering when he had begun facing outwards. Suddenly, a hand is hesitantly curving around his own, a feather light touch with shaking fingers. There is the rustle of fabric and the creaking of the floor, and then Cas' hand is on something warm, a surface covered in raised scars and barely scabbed wounds. Castiel spreads his fingers, trying to feel where he is, and just as he comes across the man's spine, his fingers find a warm, wet spot leeching out of one of the deeper wounds. Immediately, Cas gasps and jerks his hand away, at the same time as Dean is muttering something about being fine again.  
  
He can't say anything. All this time, Dean has been sitting there, bleeding, and Castiel hasn't even bothered to check on him. Too busy hating society and arguing with his brothers.  
  
_Damn it_ , he is already failing at this and he's only had Dean for a few hours. And now that it is on his hand, he can _smell_ the blood, along with the other filth on Dean's unwashed flesh.  
  
"You're bleeding," he finally manages, but the words are more air than sound.

"Just a little," the slave corrects, as if a "little" blood would still be leaking from his wounds. As if any blood at all is acceptable.  
  
"I didn't bleed on your couch, sir, I promise I didn't," Cas hears Dean stammer, and on some level he knows he should reply, but his hand is still wet and his new charge is still bleeding and he can't find a _fucking doctor._  
  
The other man is still talking, saying something else, but the blood is rushing too heavily in Cas' ears to make out anything other than the pleading tone.

There is still blood on his hand. There is _blood_ on his hand, coming from wounds that feel like they came from the claws a fucking dragon and he can't find a fucking doctor and this man is fucking _bleeding_.  
  
"Um," Cas can't remember how to form words. He is in so over his head, there is no way this will turn out well. Somehow, he has ended up on his feet.  


"You," he tries again, "should follow me now."  


"Mr. Cas, there really isn't any blood on the couch, sir," Dean says, making about as much sense as Cas is at this point.  
  
_Maybe he is delirious from blood loss._ And this just adds more fuel to the boosters propelling him to the steps.

As he approaches, he hears Dean get up behind him, albeit reluctantly. It takes Cas a few more minutes to find his words.  
  
“Take a seat on the toliet,” he says, waving an absent-minded hand in the general direction of the seat. He knows it is closed, it always is. He’s almost slipped in it or dropped something in it far too many times to count.  
  
He hears the slave do as instructed, and another wave of displeasure goes down his spine. No one should have that much power over another human, and he can’t help but think he is already falling into a commanding owner stereotype.  
  
Gritting his teeth, he pries open the medicine cabinet and searches around. His fingers brush the first shelp, then one up. Two bottles over, and he pulls out the container his fingers find. But, no, that one is too flat and skinny. Not the right bottle. He puts it back and skims again, searching for the raised corner on the label of the painkillers. When he finds it, he pops two out and holds them out to the other man. The air warms as Dean’s palm curls just beneath his own outstretched hand, and the pills fall onto the flesh with a soft plop, instead of onto the floor with a skittering click.  
  
“Take those,” Cas says, then realizes he forgot the water. Knowing Dean will probably try to dry swallow them, he reaches quickly for the glass he keeps beside the sink. But somehow, it must have been moved back an inch or so the last time he used it. His hand finds it before his fingers do, and it dips towards the edge of the counter tauntingly before Cas is able to catch it with a loud clank. Flustered, he fills it and holds it out to the slave. Inwardly, he knows Dean is now probably thinking the same thing as his brothers. Poor, blind Castiel can’t even fill a glass of water on his own.  
  
“Sir?”

And there it is. The dreaded time when Dean will ask why he lives alone, when he obviously can’t take care of himself. No one ever understands that little things upset his routine, like having an unexpected house guest when he was supposed to be getting a fucking dog….  


“I’ll do what you want, sir. You don’t need to drug me.”

And suddenly Cas’ inner monologue comes flying to a sudden halt. How stupid… how selfish could he have been…  
  
Lord only knows what Dean has been given before. He probably doesn’t even know what the pills are..  
  
“Those are painkillers, Dean,” Cas explains as gently as he can, “They’re just to make you feel better.”

Instead of a reply, Dean seems to take him at his word. Cas hears him open his mouth with a soft _pop_ , and take a large gulp of the water before draining the glass greedily and setting it back on the counter.  
  
“I took them,” comes the comfirmation, and Cas feels a smile flit across his face. It was a small display of trust, but it was a big start. Somehow, he feels proud.  
  
“Good,” he affirms, hoping the slave reads the praise correctly.  
  
When no reply comes, he gestures awkwardly to the shower.

“Your wounds need to be cleaned before they can be treated,” he offers, “Why don’t you shower? There’s soap on the top shelf.” _Hopefully_.  
  
“Mr. Cas, I don’t need to be treated. I’m ok,” Dean tries again, and Cas is done dancing around the issue.  
  
“Your back is clearly a mess. And you said your…. Ah,” Damn it, why are these words so hard to say? “Your a-…anal region is bleeding,” _Because it means you have to talk about sex._ “You likely have a broken rib, and possibly two broken fingers.” _So shut up and let me help you. God knows someone has to._  
  
“Well, yeah, sir. But there ain’t much to do about it but wait. And you already gave me medicine, which was real nice of you.”  
  
And suddenly Cas can almost empathize with his brothers, if this is what they hear when they try to help him. If he hears one more “but”, he is going to snap.  
  
“There is ‘ _much to do about it’_ ”, he says dryly. And it looks like the other man will need a bit more urging. Gently, he reaches out and brushes Dean’s upper arm, bringing him to “eye-level” and turning him towards the shower.

“I don’t want you hurt. I know you must be in a lot of pain right now, so I can help you bathe if you think that would be best. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable though. It’s up to you,” he tries.  
  
_Take the hint_.  
 

“Sir? Are you-“ Dean cuts off before he can finish his thought, and somehow Cas is grateful.  
  
“I… do what you want. Whatever you want, sir,” Dean says instead, as if adding his own hint. Either the line was rehearsed, or he wants Cas to decide for him. Either way, neither of those options is conducive to teaching a man to be free.  
  
“It’s not about what I want,” Cas reminds him.  
  
There is silence for a moment, Dean either too stubborn or too confused to comprehend the statement.  
  
“I just need to know if you think you can shower without help,” Cas offers. It’s late. He is far too tired to play this game after his ordeal with the doctors’ offices, and now he has to play nurse to a man who should be going to a hospital.  
  
_This isn’t his fault,_ Cas tries to remind himself. And it’s true. It’s unfair to be frustrated with Dean, he had no say in who bought him and even less say in where he stayed. He begged to stay here because even being obviously unwanted is probably better than anything else he has ever known.  
  
And now Cas is just sad again. This man has been through a hell he can only begin to imagine, and he is being frustrated because he doesn’t know if he can shower without help.

“Yes, Mr. Cas, I don’t need help,” Dean replies almost instantly. Privately, Cas is very grateful.  
  
“Alright, come out into the bedroom when you’re done,” he replies, offering another small smile and then vacating the bathroom as quickly as he can.

Feeling in over his head, Cas pulls out his phone and tells it to search “how to treat a broken rib” while walking over to where he keeps his first aid kit. He finds it in the closet, exactly where he left it, lid still slightly ajar from when he had briefly fished around in it for a bandaid after cutting his finger last week. Four steps forward and three to the right, he finds his bed and sets himself on the edge of it.  
  
“Broken ribs vary in severity by whether the break is partial or complete. Should the broken rib be complete, or be at such an angle that it can puncture the heart, immediate medical attention is required, as well as possible surgery to correct the issue. As such, this video is intended for use as an educational tool, and is not to be seen as an acceptable replacement for a doctor or…..”  
  
As the video played, Cas fished around in his first aid kit for the supplies. He had scissors, tape, bandages, ace bandages, and a couple of splints. After he learned how to wrap the rib- _tightly, but not tight enough so as to inhibit respiration_ \- he found one on splinting fingers.  
  
That one seemed easy enough. Straighten them, flatten them to the splint, and tape them there for a few weeks or until they feel better. So long as they didn’t need to be set…  
  
And now, for the worst one. _Just get it over with._  
  
“Search ‘how to treat anal tearing,’” he commands, hoping Dean can’t hear him in the bathroom.  
  
“Found: 6,488 results. First link, column one: Anal Fissures. Source: BDSM for Beginner’s Guide 101. Text: _Anal tearing often occurs when a large toy or object has been inserted in the anal canal without proper lubrication or preparation. Repeated occurrence can lead to scarring around the anal ring and painful bowel movements. It is highly important to always work up to large toys, and to use lube to lessen friction whenever something is inserted anally, even for a short time. In the event of anal tearing, always talk to your doctor for best treatment advice…”  
  
_ Eventually, the page got to the actual treatment, which wasn’t much. Keep it clean, abstain from sex (which would not be an issue), and use a cream which Cas doesn’t have. Absently, he pulls the ace bandages from the first aid kit and readies himself to wrap Dean’s rib, only to remember the blood on his back.  
  
_Fuck, such an idiot._ Of course he can’t put a pressure wrap over open wounds. It would be incredibly painful, unsanitary, and idiotic.  
  
“Search ‘how to treat whip wounds,’” he tells his phone with a shudder. The computerized voice lists off some videos, and he chooses one that is titled “Slave Care 101”  
  
“Whether you have a slave fresh from auction or have gone a bit overboard with punishment, if your slave’s whip marks need treatment, this is the video for you. Here, I have a slave who was caught stealing food. As is recommended, she was given a proper 15 lashes with a heavy hand. However, I don’t want these to scar quite so bad, so I am going to show you how to treat them. The first thing to know is that treatment must be administered directly after punishment in order to minimize the effects of scarring. If the wounds are deep, you may need to stitch them. If that is the case, please see my other video on this topic. If the wounds are superficial, you may suffice by coating them in an antiseptic ointment, preferably non-pain relieving, and covering them loosely with a clean, sterile bandage. Your slave should limit movement for a few days to allow for complete scabbing. It is recommended you restrain them for this time in an upright position, or on their stomach,”  
  
In the background, Cas can hear the female slave hissing as the speaker moves, and for once he is glad he is blind. It is only then that he notices the water has stopped running, and he hears the door open slowly. He is too far to feel the steam from the shower, but he can smell the soap. Quickly, he pauses the video and sets his phone aside, smiling in the slave’s direction.   
  
“All finished?”  
  
“Yes, Mr. Cas,” comes the nervous reply. Dean sounds self-conscious, and Cas can’t help but wonder again when the last time he took a shower was.  
  
“All right, come here and we’ll see about those injuries,” Cas orders, hearing Dean cross the carpet. A weight settles beside him on the bed, and he is suddenly aware of how daunting this task actually is. Where the fuck even is the man’s shoulder?

“You must forgive me,” Cas says formally, feeling like the disclaimer on the video’s he’d seen. “I’m no doctor, but I’ll do my best. I’ve been researching treatments from what you’ve told me. It seems that the best thing to do for the ribs is just to leave it alone and try to keep the pain down. We’ll see about getting stronger pain killers tomorrow, but today the over the counter ones will have to do,” he finished apologetically, cursing Gabriel again for tossing an injured man into his lap with no warning.

“Thank you, sir,” Dean says softly, voice a shade below disbelieving and insanely grateful.  
  
“It’s no problem at all,” Cas replies, feeling a bit flushed, “The same seems to go for the… um…” _Just say it_. “Anal fissures. They will heal on their own fairly quickly if left alone. Your back and fingers, though, we can do something about. Give me your hand.”  
  
He holds out his hand, palm up patiently waiting for Dean to offer up his own. Timidly, the man entrusts his own hand to Cas, palms brushing intimately and causing Cas to blush again. He pulls out the metal splints, and carefully presses them to the bottom of Dean’s hands, brushing up the length of his fingers to straighten the joints gently as is possible. When he thinks they are aligned, he pulls out the ace bandage from the first aid kit and loops them around the splints, padding between and around them, then fastens them with one of the metal clips, putting his finger over the teeth so as not to dig them into Dean’s fingers. When he is done, he turns the fingers in his hand and feels around them with his own fingers. Regardless of his inexperience, they seem straight and secure enough.

“How does that feel?”  
  
“Good, Mr. Cas,” and Cas can’t tell if Dean is lying until he says, “Better. It aches, but not as bad as before.”  
The man’s warm hand is pulled from his own, and Cas suddenly feels a bit chilled.  
  
“Is it sturdy?” he asks self-consciously, “Does it seem like it will fall apart?”

“Not at all,” Dean replies, and Cas has no choice but to take him at his word.  
  
“Good,” he breathes, taking a moment to feel slightly proud of his accomplishment, grateful he isn’t completely useless.  
  
“We essentially just need to disinfect your back and wrap it in gauze,” Cas says after a minute, remembering once again this isn’t about him. “Ideally, you would probably want some of those wounds to be stitched, but we can’t do that without professional help, and…”  
  
He sighs, trying to keep the anger and frustration out of his tone.  
  
“Well, my point is that they’ll heal. But, I don’t think we can invent scarring.”

“That’s fine, Mr. Cas. My back is already scarred.”  
  
Of course it is.  
  
And now Cas just wishes for a time machine, to go back and strangle whatever Supreme Court officials made slavery legal in cases of extreme debt seventy-five years ago. Only a few generations after enslavement came to an end by Lincoln’s hand came the “Financial Freedom Act”, which allowed collectors to let those who owed them money to pay them off with labor instead of money.  
  
Eventually, as such things do, the debts for food and lodging added up to more than the ower could ever hope to pay off, and a price was put on the worth of a human life.  
  
And obviously, as it was the owners who paid the medical bills for the birth of any children their workers had, that ownership extended to them.  
  
They’d all studied it in history class. It was seen as a genius solution, described in history class as a wonderful change for both master and slave. The owner got free labor, and the slave, who otherwise would have been stuck in the cycle of poverty and crime, got an owner who would take care of them. Originally, many slaves were even sent to college to work in their owner’s businesses, but as more slaves bred and no laws were passed regarding their treatment, humans did as humans do and took advantage of the situation.  
  
Now, slaves like Dean had to pay the price.  
  
“I’m sorry,” Cas hears, and suddenly fears he had been talking out loud. But no, he couldn’t have. His mouth is still hanging open in the stupid, slack-jawed look of shock.  
  
“Are you apologizing for your scars?” he clarifies, drawing his brows up and directing his voice towards the other man.  
“I…… Yes?” Dean says, unsure and sounding a bit afraid.  
  
Of all things….

“Dean, it’s not your fault people have hurt you,” he replies automatically. And he hopes this will be the break through. The time the man starts sobbing, releasing all of the hurt he has been through, begins his trail towards reclaiming his life.  
  
But of course, it doesn’t happen. This isn’t a movie or book, and decades of abuse and psychological conditioning don’t become undone in one night. They sit in silence until Cas almost thinks Dean has fallen asleep. Were it not for his still pained breaths, he would have believed so.  
  
“Here,” he says, reaching out to touch the man’s shoulder. Instead, his knuckles brush an adam’s apple, which jumps in Dean’s throat. He glides his hand down the curve of the man’s neck, and finally finds his shoulder, giving a small nudge to communicate that he needs to turn around. Dean complies, albeit slowly and with stifled pained gasps.

“I’m going to disinfect the wounds now. This might sting a bit,” he says apologetically. Wanting this night to just be done, he hurries on without waiting for a response, taking a cotton ball and putting it to the tip of the neosporin tube. He feels the pressure on the cotton when he has enough, and gently glides his fingers down Dean’s back with just a whisper of pressure to find the jagged edges of his cuts. The work is slow, but steady, and gives him something to focus on other than the shirtless man in his bed.  
  
“Alright,” he announces after he has applied the neosporin to all of the cuts he can find, which he really does not want to think about, “Now we just need to wrap your back.”  
  
He feels the muscles under Dean’s shoulders stretch as he cranes his head, breath landing on Cas’ fingers as he pulls them away to grab the gauze from the first aid kit. Gently, he unwraps it, and hears Dean turn his head back away, keeping his back straight once more.  
  
It is easier than he imagines, his arms fit easily around Dean’s slender torso and the slave lifts his arms with a gentle prodding. As Cas works his way down, he smoothes his fingers over the layer he just finished to feel the tightness of the wrapping and keep himself aware of how much each layer slackens when he wraps the next one.

It is almost comforting, to finally be putting the monstrosity of Dean’s injuries behind soft, clean cotton. The man smells like soap now, instead of sweat and bodily fluids. Underneath, Cas can catch a hint of the man’s own sweet smelling musk, and also the pheromones of his fear that cloud the very air around him.  
  
As he ties off the bandage, his hand drifts down, muscles tired from constant motion, and his knuckles rub against the spot on the other man where he should have found the waistband of his sweat pants. Except, it was just bare skin.  
Oh, god.  
  
He jerks his hands back, feeling dirty just for touching the man. The _naked_ man in his bed. The naked _slave_ in his bed. Who has been raped just that morning.  
  
He has no words.  
  
“Mr. Cas?”  
  
He knows his disgust with his actions must be shown on his face, and Dean’s voice is very quiet, as if he is a child poking a balloon with a pin, just waiting for the inevitable _pop_.  
  
“Um…” And now all he can imagine is Dean naked in his bed. Naked as he has been rubbing his hands all over his back, unconsciously smelling him and enjoying his warmth.  
  
He’s no better than any other man who has owned this slave.  
  
“Dean,” he tries, “Are you…Are you wearing any clothes?”  
  
_Please say yes. Please say yes Please say….  
  
_ “No, sir.”

“You’ve been naked this whole time…” Cas clarifies.  
  
“Y-yes, sir,” Dean says, as though it was common knowledge. As though being naked with another man in bed is just a normal….  
  
Fuck.  
  
“Oh….Right….Erm….” Cas can’t think of anything to say to make this better, to affirm he isn’t a bad person, he hasn’t been taking advantage of this man. That he hasn’t enjoyed being this _close_ to someone for the first time in years that wasn’t Gabriel’s forced smothering hugs.  
  
He falls back onto the bed with his hands still gripping his head over his hair, brain pounding with the blood from his heart rushing through his temples.

“Erm…here.. You can…Here.”  
  
Cas reaches down and reaches over Dean’s lap, taking extreme care not to touch him, and grabs the throw blanket from the foot of the bed. On his way back, he drags the blanket over the man’s shoulders, hears the fabric rustle as he adjusts it around himself.

God, he is so stupid, so so stupid. Maybe Gabe was right. He couldn’t even tell Dean had been _naked_ that whole time, probably expecting Cas to jump him any moment.  
  
“I’m sorry,” he hears the slave mumble, “Am I in trouble?”  
  
_Such an idiot._ Of course this isn’t about him. Why does he always make it about him?

“No,” he barks, a bit too loudly.  
  
“No, of course not, I…” he softens, “Just, why? Why didn’t you put the sweatpants back on?”  
  
_Please tell me you can see that I’m different.  
  
_ “I just… I wasn’t sure, sir, if you would want to… If…”  
  
The slave shudders bodily, the bed quaking beneath him as a rough breath tears through his lips. And Cas is so fucking sorry, so sorry he didn’t know and so sorry for what he knows is coming, but is praying doesn’t.  
  
“I’m sorry, sir,” Dean moans.

“Dean,” Cas says gently, realizing that now more than ever is the time he can show the slave he is safe, once and for all.  
  
“It’s okay, I’m not mad. I just don’t understand,” he explains, amazed he has been able to keep his voice so steady. This is the defining moment, when he can lay the cards on the table and explain how it will be.  
  
“I just didn’t know if you were going to want to fuck me right now,” the slave gasps, words tumbling out so fast that Cas can barely register them, as if speaking them will suddenly make it happen.

And from the angle his breath hits the air between them, from the way his voice lowers as he talks, Cas can tell he is staring at the floor. Looking at the carpet and probably wishing he could sink into it. Cas is having that exact thought. But only one of them is sound enough of mind to make this situation right, to put it in perspective and make it a learning experience.  
  
Slowly, with deliberate, even movements, Cas moves closer to the other man, turning towards him and following his puffed breaths to his cheek, cupping it as gently as he can. Dean stiffens, pulling away slightly, but stops when Cas doesn’t move. When the man stills, Castiel again applies a feather’s weight of pressure, turning his face up so his eyes are hopefully looking into Cas’. He always hears about eye contact, was trained from an early age to try and look like he was giving it. It’s a sign of respect and a sign of equality. Now, more than ever, he needed to affirm that for the person he was talking to.

“Listen to me,” Cas starts, trying to pick his words carefully, to make them as clear as possible. His heart is hammering, but his words don’t waver. Dean’s jaw is warm in his palm, stubble brushing his palm.  
  
_Focus._  
  
“I’m not…” _I can’t_. “I’m not going to do that to you. I won’t touch you like that.”  
  
And this, of all things, is what finally gets a reaction out of the slave.  
  
A warm, sweat-soaked hand covers his own, pressing it into the flesh on Dean’s jaw.  
  
“Sir, no,” he begs, “Please, I’ll be good. I’ll make you feel good.”  
  
Cas takes a deep breath, trying to remind himself that this man’s entire existance has been validated on what he can provide for his masters. This would take time, and a firm hand with clear expectations.  
  
“You don’t need to,” he says, “that’s not what you’re here for.”  
  
_Please understand_.  
  
Beneath their hands, he feels Dean suck in a harsh breath and shake his head side to side, a clear no.  
  
“That’s all I can do,” he says breathily, voice trembling.  
  
“You can see,” Cas says, going for humor, but also truth, “So you’re already ahead of me.”

Dean is silent for a moment, and Cas dares to hope that maybe he has gotten through to him. Then, suddenly, the man is flying towards him. Pushing him backwards and straddling him, ignoring him when Cas yells his name. He is lost, feeling Dean kiss his face and neck with desperate, heart-breaking little pecks that supersede him grinding himself down on Cas’ crotch.  
  
And damn if that isn’t the most action that he has seen in years. It doesn’t take much. It never has. He feels himself hardening, almost grinds his hips up towards the other man’s warmth, but controls himself with a sound of disgust at his own actions. Summoning all of his will power and strength, Cas shoves Dean off of him before he can damage their already fragile relationship even more.

“Dean!” Cas yelps, but Dean keeps going. Planting kisses all over his masters face and neck, he moves his legs so that he is straddling the man, and grinds down on Cas’s crotch.

“Stop!” he snaps, far too late. He hears something rustle on the carpet, in the direction he threw Dean. He stands, only to find himself wavering, equilibrium thrown off.  
  
_Breathe. In, two, three. Out, two, three. Control it, you are the sane one here. He is just confused…_  
Cas walks over to his dresser, absently grabbing another pair of pajama bottoms from his drawer.

He listens, but he can’t hear anything, not even the man breathing.  
  
“Dean,” he calls, “Where are you?”  
  
“Here,” the man breathes, breath and voice shaking so badly that he sounds like he is about to fall apart.  
  
“Are you on the floor?” _Why didn’t he get up yet?_ “I have some clothes for you, please stand up.”

It’s a peace offering, but apparently not one the slave will take. He doesn’t hear any movement, just the same ragged breathing.  
  
“Sir,” the man whimpers, quiet as a puppy’s cry. Cas approaches cautiously, trying not to spook him. This needed to be handled delicately. He has no idea what the other man will need, but he needs to help him somehow.  
  
Cas tries as gently as he can to guide him up, but with every nudge, the slave curls up tighter and tighter, pulling away as much as possible.  
  
“Come on, Dean,” _Help me here._ “It’s okay,” he soothes, “you’re okay.”  

Dean relents slightly at this, relaxing only the slightest fraction, but it is enough to have Cas pulling at something that is no longer resisting, and suddenly he is falling and Dean is coming with him.  
  
The man lands in his chest, and Cas expects him to panic, to crawl away again. Instead, he finds hands wrapped in the fabric of his shirt and a spiky mop of wet hair pressed beneath his chin.  
  
And this is good, this is so good. Dean is taking comfort, accepting comfort, without prompting. He isn’t pulling away from Cas like he would an attacker. He knows. _He knows._  
  
“Shh, it’s alright, Dean, it’s alright,” he says, patting the man’s back and keeping his voice low, to try and combat the weight of Dean’s nightmares, the tremors that rattle his very being.  
  
Here, this close, Cas can almost hear the demons. He can taste the skeletons, feel the pain. With Dean’s heart pressed against his, he knows he holds the remains of a man who knows the true meaning of suffering.  
  
“I’m here, you’re safe. You’re okay. You’re going to be okay,” he finds himself saying.  
  
Little by little, with each whispered promise of safety, Dean begins to relax into Cas’ net of comforting words.  
  
“You’re nicer than the others were,” Dean says eventually, words hot and fragile against Cas’ neck.  
  
“I want to stay with you.” Such a simple sentence, but each word breaks on the skin of Cas’ jaw with the weight of a life on them. And this, he knows, is the moment he has been waiting for all night.  
  
“You can,” he whispers, “You will. But not for that anymore.”  
  
Dean relaxes another fraction of an inch, unconsciously nestling further into Castiel’s neck.  
  
“You’re safe here.”

And for the first time that night, Cas feels Dean’s shoulders drop. He feels him suck in a breath, with the slighest glimmer of hope beating in the slave’s chest. He can feel it in the man’s pulse, racing against his own like a promise.  
  
Whatever happens, there is no turning back now. They were in this together.  
  
And maybe, just maybe, Cas hopes, they can come out of this okay.


End file.
